


Quite Venomous...

by SofterLips



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Gore, Sex, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-07-11 22:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15982211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterLips/pseuds/SofterLips
Summary: Crowley walks into a modest book-shop in SoHo to find several lower demons having a jolly time beating on his angel. He takes very real pleasure in reminding everyone involved that even if he is rather low on the demonic food chain, he is actually quite...venomous.





	1. Fang Slip-Venom Sip

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I'm Emira 
> 
> I've got so many ideas swirling around in my head that I don't really know where I'm going with this. I can tell you this though: It never really sat well with me that Crowley was so low on the demonic food-chain. He perpetuated original sin, he’s been on Earth this whole time, soaking up all the sin man can generate, and well, don’t snakes have fangs for a reason?
> 
> So then, I started thinking, what if after that whole end-of-all-Creation debacle, that Crowley decided to get creative? What if he decided that if anyone was going to come after either him or his angel, he was going to make them regret it, and remind them just who exactly original sin belongs to? 
> 
> Anyway- I can't really promise a standing update schedule (I'm a grad student), but I'd love to hear what everyone likes, dislikes, and whether they'd like more. I'm doing this 1) because writing is therapeutic for me, and I don't get to do it as often as I'd like, and 2) because I love Good Omens and hope that others enjoy the story.

There had been holy water in the squirt bottle.

At the time, Crowley hadn’t realized what it meant when Hastur had smiled and burst the bulb of the plant mister before leaping upon him that day. After feeling that small, cool, droplet, Crowley had checked out for a full 2 seconds. His eyes had widened behind his glasses, and he had been sure- absolutely sure- that he was absolutely dead before he’d really gotten started on the whole Free Will lark.

Damn.

But upon lots of reflection, instigated by lots of wine, he had realized that Hastur had not been particularly clever, but he’d been calling a bluff that hadn’t been a bluff at all. If Crowley had been thinking clearly, and not operating on basic panic, he would have sprayed the ugly bastard in the face and saved everyone some time and energy.

Double damn.

After arriving in London, eating a surprisingly somber and exhausted dinner at the Ritz, and dropping the angel off at the bookshop, he resolved to get heroically, stupidly drunk, sleep for a week, and not think about any of it. At all. Not about the disobedience, or the free will, or the danger they were now in; not about his failures, not about his angel. Well, the angel. They had survived through centuries all these years- how in the world were they going to survive this go around? There was no lying or fudging or swapping blame this time...

He took another swallow, managing the drunken part. He couldn’t manage the sleep though.

'But,' Crowley figured, 'this is an _easy_ fix', for Crowley simply needed a few hours with the opiate of the masses- TV.

He figured more wine wouldn’t hurt. Neither would some vodka, or a lot of spectacularly cheap whiskey that tasted like bad water but burned really well. No Golden Girls on at this hour (what time is it?) but there was, interestingly, nature programs on every channel1. The one that was just beginning was about snakes; desert snakes, jungle snakes, water snakes, grass snakes. Crowley got comfortable, his legs and back sprawled and looped along the back of the couch and up the wall, while his face was mashed into the couch. But through the alcohol rushing through and around Crowley’s frontal lobe, he watched as snakes do- in unblinking stillness-and learned all about his reptile...brethren? Descendants? Collective?

 One kind of snake was capable of eating poisonous insects and turning the poison that they ingested into a highly potent and extremely toxic venom that they then used to hunt massive prey. Another kind could spit venom from 3 meters away with blinding accuracy.

He’d have to remember to tell the angel about it. He wondered if the angel was more knowledgeable about snakes than the dear idiot was about dolphins. He missed drinking with the angel. He wondered if the angel missed drinking with him. He wondered, despairingly, if the angel missed him at all. He belched and rolled his eyes at himself.

He also wondered, vaguely, if he could do all of the things that the snakes in the documentary were able to do, if he really made an effort.

And then there was an idea, an epiphany, a –ahem- revelation. ‘What if I...?’ he wondered. No- that would be suicide. Even at his most depressed, his most helpless, his most drunk, he was not suicidal.

But what if it worked? It hadn't hurt when it hit his finger, and he hadn't melted or exploded or, or, anything when it had sprayed his jacket.

What if he could do like the snake on TV did? He was the Serpent after all. Technically, all snakes today came from him. He was the original gene stock, why couldn’t _he_ take something toxic, like those bugs…like holy water, and make it lethal to everyone _but_ himself. He could protect himself from the oncoming onslaught he _knew_ was coming once Heaven and Hell got their respective heads around the new Adam-approved order of things. In theory…if things went alright… if he could show the 9 circles just what exactly Anthony J. Crowley was made of…maybe he could even protect Aziraphale too.

He watched the rest of the program, and by the time the credits began to roll, Crowley was sober, and he was walking out the door.

* * *

 

It’s been a month since then.

He had special containers made to hold the truly massive amounts of holy water he was now keeping stashed in his flat2. He had even bought himself a shot glass, to make it easier to knock back. He had learned to extract the venom he made, and had tested the venom he had produced on Bibles and upside down crosses, and pentagrams and rosaries. He eventually started going out in the dead of night with a flashlight and practicing his aim; spitting on holy and unholy grounds.

On his first go, the grass had gone up, and Crowley had thrown rocks until he'd woken up the parishioner in-house to say his churchyard cemetery was on fire.

He hadn't told the angel about any of it. He knew it would be all "You can't change your basic nature" and "What in the blazes is wrong with you?"

So instead, he pretended nothing had changed, though really, he didn't want that to be the case at all...

“Have you got anything on tomorrow?” asked Crowley after he had dutifully provided assistance to Freddie Mercury’s drums and vocals against the steering wheel for a solid minute.

The tape clicked off.

“Oh,” said the angel, as though he hadn’t thought about anything besides his own assistance to Freddy Mercury’s vocals, ever, in the history of thinking. He looked around the interior of the Bentley, kind of like he had when Crowley first bought it.

“I’ve got some re-organizing still to do. I need to double-check my inventories as well. You know dear, tax season is coming up...”

Crowley didn’t hide his scoff. Aziraphale sighed and began to bustle out of the Bentley. “You haven’t heard from Up There then?” he cut the angel off.

The angel paused. “My dear, you know I would-,”

“Because I haven’t heard from Anyone, and it’s freaking me out angel,” said the demon.

“Crowley-,”

“Look-,” Crowley began, cutting the angel off. Then he sighed. The angel sniffed, and folded his arms.

“I’m going for a drive,”

The angel blinked like an owl, and asked, warily, “Now?”

“No, tomorrow,”

“What does this have to do with any-,”

“Come with me?” Crowley blurted.

“Where?”

“I don’t know yet. You can bring some of your bloody books and I’ll pay for lunch,” The angel raised a perfect eyebrow.

“Pay? You must be ‘freaked out’ indeed. But yes,” the angel said, as he stepped out into the cool London air, “I’ll ride along,”.

"No-not-," Crowley cut himself off, but it was too late. The angel was looking at him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

"What was that dear boy?"

"Nothing- I just-," Crowley bit his tongue and stared straight ahead. "Crowley," sighed the angel.

"I don't want you to just ride along. I want you with me. Because you want to be there. With me," he said. He felt embarrassed and hopeless and stupid. So he threw the Bentley in gear and didn't notice that Aziraphale had climbed back in the car until he laid his right hand over Crowley's left on the gearshift.

"Yes,"

Crowley forgot to breathe.

"Yes?"

"Yes, dear," Aziraphale gave a little laugh that made Crowley whip his gaze up to meet the angel's eyes. They were so blue.

"Don't you know how much I adore you, you silly demon?"

* * *

 

It’s three months after, and the earth is still spinning, and people are still people, and everything is just...fine. Completely fine. More fine than things have ever been. More fine than hour-glass sand. More fine than David Bowie’s sweet face and sweeter ass. Fine. Everything is so fine, in fact, Crowley doesn’t spend a lot of time in his apartment anymore. There’s only so much time one can spend snarling at vegetation before they start to become immune to the threats. And Crowley won’t have it. He will not have the ferns getting uppity.

There’s also only so much time one can devote to not looking for the scorch marks he knows should be in the door-way but are very much not due to the intervention of one Anti-Christ’s good will and the general fine-ness of the universe. Regardless, the events that transpired that day still leave him with a slick queasy feeling in his humanoid body if he thinks about it for too long.

In fact, the only thing Aziraphale had mentioned as anything less than fine, was Crowley's newly developed need to keep the Bentley gleaming from the inside out. The Bentley herself had always been spotless, but that was mostly from Crowley’s Will, and not Crowley’s physical effort. At the rate he was going, Crowley was as likely to rub bits more raw than clean3. It was kind of embarrassing to watch, but mostly endearing. Afterward, Crowley had driven them to the Ritz. Aziraphale had held Crowley’s hand the whole way there. Their fingers were laced, and their cheeks were hot but Crowley’s whole being seemed to shine and a small part of Aziraphale that had been knotted since the Beginning let loose.

He had been so sure demons couldn't love- couldn't feel it, or have it, or produce it. He was never so glad to be wrong.

Crowley’s destinations weren’t usually planned, but it was clear to the both of them that they were driving to remember there are other places that are still whole and standing. Usually, they wind up drunkenly stumbling down memory lane 4 (they make new memories to pave the way too 5).

Sometimes, Crowley does drive alone and he looks at the scenery that passes, and revels in the feel of his Bentley, not on fire, not held together through Will alone, but held with steel and iron and rubber. He thinks about how vague memories of Heaven are brought to his mind in some places, and in some places, all he can see is a shadow that stinks and sweats like Hell. He drives faster in those places.

But eventually he’ll park, like he’s doing now, with no regard for traffic law or bystanders, and he’ll get out in front of Mr. A.Z. Fell and Co.’s bookshop. He’ll check his reflection in the side mirror of the Bentley. He’ll make sure his suit is impeccable, his eyes are covered, and that his fangs are not visible to angel, demon, or human. No one seems to remember that Crowley is actually quite a venomous specimen6. 

* * *

 It had been 7 months since Crowley’s drunken epiphany, and six months since Crowley had invited him out for that first drive. Now the drives were part of the routine, along with the kisses and the touches and the love.

And still, Aziraphale could find it in him to fuss. In 24 minutes, Crowley was going to pick him up. Aziraphale did not want to be thinking of Crowley, but he supposed that’s what the ache in his chest was about. Things had felt off, recently. Crowley was hiding something, and not in his sneaky- snake-oh-what-a-demon-I-am way. It was in a muted way, in a guarded way, that Aziraphale did not like.

But, he reminded himself, everything was fine. He inhaled, sucking in bookshop dust and moldy smells like a whale sucks in water through their baleen.

“Everything is fine,” he repeated, aloud this time, in a stern manner to the aether. Then he moved toward the backroom. There were manuscripts that he could repair for those 24 minutes. There was tea he could drink. Yes. He didn’t need to be worrying about his silly demon.

But the hiding-

His thought was cut short with a knife to the chest and a hit to the back of the head. He felt his power drain, and with it, his wards collapsed around the bookshop.

All the pain and the collection of visceral fear streaking through his brain left room in his head for only one thought: ‘I hope that whatever has gotten me, won’t get Crowley’.

Crowley is two feet from the shop door, and he passes through wards that used to pluck and prick at his damaged soul, but now they seem to...not _welcome_ him but have accepted that they can’t Smite him. They've dimmed their harsh beaming to a more reasonable and less itchy glow when he’s around ...and that’s odd.

The wards aren’t up.

He ignores the worry that knots in his chest because ignorance is a sport he’s gotten good at. He calls for the angel and bangs the shop door open. The bell jingles merrily, annoyed.

“Aziraphale!” A pause. “Angel?”

The shop itself is unnaturally still, but there is too much dust in the air. Crowley pauses, and opens his mouth to inhale. There’s a snarling, sick smell wafting from the upstairs apartment. And Crowley recognizes it immediately. He feels his fangs drop, and he folds his glasses away into the breast pocket of his dress shirt. He likes the jacket he’s wearing, bespoke and blue, so he throws it onto a nearby book stack before sprinting up the flight of stairs. He's hoped he wouldn't have to do this so soon, but he's glad he's prepared.

Crowley is snake- quiet when he moves, and he stands in the door-way of Aziraphale’s unused bedroom. He comes up short because for a few seconds he can’t really believe what he’s seeing.

There are four demons, young and ugly, beating Aziraphale, and Crowley feels himself flush with blood hotter than hellfire. Aziraphale on the other hand, looks pale and bruised. There’s sweat and thin little trickles of ichor leaking from all over his body, at the corners of his mouth, dripping out his ears, and under his nose. There’s also a binding sigil carved onto his chest- glowing black. Crowley knows immediately that this sigil is something nasty: he reads enough of it in the quick glance he has to understand that even if they beat him to death, Aziraphale’s soul is stuck in that body. He would have to endure whatever they put his body through for as long as the sigil remained. It also meant that any of his cries for help would go unheard Up There. He knows there is absolutely no way these four lower demons had found the angel, gotten through the wards, and created a sigil of that complexity all by themselves.

Crowley goes from furious to delirious with Wrath.

“Stop!” Said Crowley.

It wasn’t like a bark, or a scream, or even a hiss, but his voice held something More. It held Old power, something that only comes from being alive since the Beginning. It held the agony of Hell behind it, but it was an order; it was the kind of voice that was made of venom. The young demons stop. They don’t know why. It’s not like Crowley is of a much higher rank than they are, technically.

Aziraphale, who recognizes that voice, even if he hasn’t heard it for millennia, blinks through the pain enough to get his bearings.

Aziraphale slowly shakes his head, gasping wetly.

“My dear-,” he breathes. That seems to jolt the demon with six eyes lying across the angel’s feet.

She barks out a “Quiet!” and rounds on Aziraphale. Her name for the next 40 seconds is Malololique. Aziraphale flinches away, but he’s a bit delirious and chokes out a small “rude” because, really it is rude to shout in a person’s face. But he’s still held tightly in place by the two demons on either side of him. There is another demon behind those two, right beside the angel’s

head.

Malololique blinks her six eyes at Crowley, and growls through large jaws and dripping, jagged teeth,

“We’ve been expecting you,”

But Crowley isn’t in the mood to talk. He takes a step, lashes out, grips her arm, and tugs her close to him. Before the other demons can blink, his fangs sink into her wrist. He throws her in a pantomime of a dancer’s whirl to the farthest wall from the angel. It’s quick work for her to bounce back from the wall to rush him, but the poison is quicker, and it’s already working its way up her arm. The venom glows through her skin, a vile, toxic yellow-green, before working its way through her body. She coughs twice, and her eyes begin to melt back into her head. She doesn’t even have time to scream before her black soul dissolves into the carpet, leaving black and pus-yellow stains where she fell to the floor.

The two demons holding Aziraphale’s arms watch – their names for the next 38 seconds are Gritto and Glunk- in stunned stillness, before they shake it off and jump to their hooved feet, bleating like crazed sheep. They charge at Crowley, their sharp horns lowered at his chest. He waits until the last second, can even feel their claws scrabble at his shirt, before he collapses to snap at their heels. He nicks Gritto, and gets a good bite out of Glunk. Gritto watches his twin collapse, before staring as Crowley sinuously rises to his feet.

The motion brings to mind a large cobra swaying, slowly spreading his great hood.

Sensing he has already waited too long, Gritto charges like an American football player, but Crowley merely turns with the other demon’s momentum and bites the outstretched hand. Gritto trips over his own hooves and falls next to the smudged outline of Malololique’s putrid, still smoldering, essence. The stain on the floor grows.

Crowley turns again to find that the final demon is either feeling substantially luckier than their comrades, or is just genuinely more stupid, depending on who you decide to ask7. For the next 2 minutes and 14 seconds, their name is Karl. Karl holds Aziraphale close with their right hand, and with their left, they hold a damned blade. It was right over the angel’s chest, and had been obviously used to cut the sigil in the first place. The blade is twitching in a shaking hand, but Karl still manages a smirk.

“Who knew you had it in you, Crawly?”

Crowley feels his lips curl up in a snake- grin. Fangs are all that show. He knows scales are erupting down his face, neck, and back; his form is slipping with his patience and control.

“Why are you here? Who put you up to this?” he asks.

Karl shrugs, and blinks their eye, “What makes you think-,”

“Wasss it Hassstur?” Crowley hisses.

Karl blinks again.

“That’s not-”

“Wasss it?”

“Well, yeah,”

“What. Does. He. Want?”

The diminutive cyclops smiles, gaining confidence, knowing that Crowley can't get him just yet, and moves the blade closer to the angel’s neck. The angel himself looks close to passing out or being sick8.

“Tell me, or you’ll suffer worse than they did,” Crowley Says.

This declaration makes Karl swallow. The blade moves back to where it started- farther away from the angel’s neck, but still too close.

“His lordship hired us to beat up th’ angel, maybe collect some tears, ya know they bein valuable- like, then mess ya up, then make ya watch while we killed th’ angel, then drag ya back to Hell for ‘im. Tha’s all,”

Crowley’s jaw began to work. Karl is coming to the realization that they don’t know a lot about snake anatomy or behavior. They are regretting this knowledge gap, and deciding that they don’t like or trust Crowley’s silence, but these thoughts are short lived.

Crowley spits.

The screaming pierces the air like a siren. Karl throws the angel and the blade away in an effort to claw their own eye out. Crowley collects the angel gently in his arms and takes them away to Mayfair. Karl’s eye, along with their face and brain, melt into bubbling, viscous nothing, and the book-shop is silent again.

* * *

 

1\. Unknown to A.J. Crowley, befuddled drunkard supreme, the TV remote he was furiously brandishing was a coaster.  
2\. With the advent of Amazon, Crowley didn’t need to go through Aziraphale to get it anymore. He just needed a credit card.

3\. Crowley had cleaned the Bentley, inside and out, and then lovingly shined her tires and her wheel rims, had waxed and polished and caressed her until it made the owner of the car wash uncomfortable.

4\. They’re in Hawaii, and they are absolutely drunk, but the noise of the surf is louder than the blood in their ears.

"Re-remember- when we firsht came here? You got drunk and tried to swallow a pineapple whole?" Aziraphale laughs from his prim perch on a bar-stool.

Crowley is all but sprawled on the bar next to him. There are three neon pink paper umbrellas in his hair. "No," he answers grumpily, which meant 'Yes, of course, shut up,'. But the angel is oblivious.

"Yes you do, dear, you bet you hadn’t lost your s-shnakely skills. Wh-which, really, dearest, what a shtupid thing to think- my dear, you’re the Serpent after all. You’d never seen one before of course, didn’t even know what the bloody thing was, but-"

Crowley flings himself up from the wood of the bar, and sways while sitting. The umbrellas don't move a centimeter. "You’d never seen one either! It was the 1700s!" He wipes away a bit of drool, "I had to drag you from that monastery!"

Aziraphale’s drunken wheezing laughter makes Crowley scowl harder so he doesn’t split his face smiling.

Aziraphale continues, "You coughed up spines and bark for a week, dearesht. Very impreshive I thought."

"Oh, well tha’s alright then," Crowley finally gives in and smiles.

5\. They are watching the sun set in the Egyptian desert, away from prying eyes. The desert sand is warming Crowley from the outside-in just like it used to, back when the first pyramid was brand new. The demon’s legs are out in front of him, and he’s nestled against Aziraphale’s chest and belly and thighs. Conversely, the sand is chafing Aziraphale in all the wrong places. He sits stiff and still for Crowley though, because the demon is like a puddle in his lap, and the poor dear does need to relax more.

He adjusts his floppy hat with the green tartan ribbon and lolls his head against Mola the camel. He acknowledges the beauty of the pyramids. He just wishes he had something to read. Currently, they are well hidden from any prying mortal eyes. (Mola is content enough to sit- she likes the visitors. The one that smells like rain and dust fed her juicy carrots when no one was watching, and she knows there is more around somewhere. She does not know of the concept of homophobia.)

Crowley looks up and back at the angel when he feels the slight movement and takes in the way his mouth is cracked, his eyes too blue against the hot sun, and how his cheeks are flushed- like someone had dropped a strawberry in a plate of cream. Crowley tilts his mouth up, and then his chin, and makes contact with his angel’s mouth. Their love feels like an oasis all its own, and Crowley drinks deeply. Mola feasts on the carrots she finds in an open saddle-bag.

6\. Well, not No One per se.

7\. Anyone will tell you, you had better be Damnably stupid or Ineffably lucky before you threaten something (or someone) that a demon covets or desires or Wants. Seeing as how Crowley covets the angel’s attention, desires the angel’s body, and Wants the angel to himself for all time in all ways, threatening the angel in Crowley’s face is just not a good move.

8\. Crowley became very acquainted with this face after the plagues in the 14th century. And on one memorable occasion when the angel had been drunk and careless and accidentally given himself food poisoning at a New Year’s party in 1921. He had thrown up on the demon’s snakeskin shoes. Crowley wasn’t likely to forget after a lesson like that.


	2. Save Your Face-Clean the Kill

Still holding his angel, Crowley appears in his apartment with a scorching _whumpf._

The plants perk up, in interest and in fear. They know, deep in their xylem and phloem, that something is wrong- the air is too hot, too thick, and their master’s mood...no thank you. In defensive reflex they start blooming and straightening and they begin pouring out oxygen like beings possessed.

Crowley doesn’t notice them.

He tenderly sprawls the angel out on his stark white couch before making quick work of the angel’s torn vest and shirt. He’s so distracted; he physically rips the soiled clothing off.

The angel’s head lolls and his eyes squeeze shut. It’s quiet, except for the rustling and tearing of tweed and worn cotton. When all of the sigil and bloody, sweaty skin is revealed, Crowley sucks his teeth and swallows hard1.

Then he swallows again because – well, while he is a demon, and knows he isn’t supposed to cry over something ridiculous like empathy, or sympathy, or relief, this human body has tear ducts. And he can feel himself crashing from the adrenaline rush2.

He pulls himself together and thinks through his options as his angel breathes. Aziraphale is still bleeding, slowly, from all sorts of places. Crowley knows that he does have the ability to heal, to an extent. But Crowley is afraid; terrified really, that anything he tries to do will just make the sigil scar over. And at that point, he’s fairly certain the angel would rather be dead.

He needs something stronger and cleaner than he’ll ever be.

He presses his nose and mouth close to the blood and sweat matted curls next to the angel’s ear.

He whispers, “I’m gonna be right back angel.”

The angel keeps breathing, and Crowley is so thankful for it.

He makes his mind up, and gets the holy water stashed in the kitchen wall.

On top of the jug of holy water are his new bio-hazard gloves, a plastic lined smock, and a shot glass. He puts the shot glass aside and slips the gloves on and throws the smock on over his head before tying it at the waist. (He isn't so confident in his experimental abilities that he doesn't want some protection, an actual barrier between himself and the holy water.)

He grabs the jug and sets it next to the couch, before pausing and biting his lip. He runs to the bathroom, and gets some towels and two old soft washcloths. He bunches the towels up around the angel’s sides.

The angel stirs from the tucking movement, and he watches as the angel blinks hazily before flinching back. Crowley swallows again.

“It’ssss me, Angel. It’s Crowley,” he whispers, as gently as he can.

Aziraphale sighs, and blinks hard, fighting pain and the delirium that grips ethereal beings when injured in such an occult manner. His eyes are a feverish mercurial silver instead of bright blue.

“What-what? Are there shadows in the bathroom? Is it still raining- 40 days and 40 nights are you lot serious?” he mumbles critically.

Crowley shakes his head.

“Later. Shut up. This will probably feel awful before it feels better,” and he opens the jug.

Aziraphale watches him pour the water on his chest. He doesn’t seem to know what’s about to happen. But then the water starts to steam and bubble angrily, and Aziraphale inhales sharply, eyes wide, unseeing. Crowley immediately scrubs at the sigil, doing his damnedest to ignore how Aziraphale starts to shake and whimper and weakly kick. Crowley adds more water after the hissing has quieted, and despite Aziraphale’s shaking and best efforts not to cry out, Crowley sees the angel stick his knuckles in his mouth to help bite his screams down. Crowley redoubles his efforts, until the sigil- burned skin begins to flake off the angel like old tree bark.

More water. More scrubbing. More smooth skin. Rinse.

Repeat.

Crowley has to pause to switch out his washcloths when the black occult sigil and dead ethereal skin have mucked the first beyond repair. He tosses it towards the kitchen floor. But the angel is sighing now, and the delirium glaze in his eyes is mostly gone. He’s just watching, still breathing, even when he doesn’t need to. He looks exhausted. Crowley takes his new washcloth and cleans all the debris and water away to check for what remains. Just a little more flaking skin, and he can get the angel into a bath. He pours the holy water from sternum to his belly button and there’s no more hissing, just a clean sluice and light rub down. Satisfied, he imagines a rose-scented hot bath and a large tub waiting for them in his bathroom while he moves to sit the angel upright.

“Come on, angel,” said Crowley. Aziraphale grunts and complies.

While Aziraphale is no longer actively bleeding or hurt, there is still dried blood in his hair turning his hair a tarnished brassy color and the bruises haven’t faded from his arms yet. There remains that trace of silver around the iris of his eyes. Crowley doesn’t expect that to fade for a while yet. He leads his angel to the bathroom, where the steam coming off the water is gentle. Thinking more clearly now, Crowley just raises an eyebrow and the trousers and pants and socks and shoes on Aziraphale vanish away. Completely nude, Aziraphale looks at him a moment before gingerly stepping into the tub.

“Don’t get fresh with me,” he says before sitting down, stretching his legs out and laying his head back. He doesn’t break eye contact with Crowley.

Crowley, standing by ill at ease, is shocked into nigh-hysterical laughter. His angel is absolutely nuts.

Aziraphale smiles gently and holds his hand out. Crowley shucks his gloves. Then he takes his angel's hand and collapses by the tub in a sprawl of limbs. Aziraphale sighs. He lays a hand on his smooth chest, and strokes down to his smooth, round stomach3.

Crowley watches, suddenly on high alert. His own mood swing damn near gives him whiplash. “How do you feel? Is it all gone?” Crowley whispers.

“Fine, dear. Good thinking on your part with the water,” Aziraphale says, rubbing at his arms now like he’s warding off a chill, hot water loud in the quiet room. Crowley nods, collapsing back down, and hopes, stupidly, that the angel won’t ask the question he doesn’t want to answer4.

“Though, I am curious. However did you get the water here so quickly? You didn’t rob a church did you?” Aziraphale asks, voice a bit churlish.

“No,” Crowley says, not rising to the bait. He’s too relieved, “Just had it on hand,”

“And why-“

“How’s the delirium?” Crowley asks over him. “You asked me about shadows in the toilet and commented on the 40 days and 40 nights of rain business,” he side-eyes Aziraphale, “I didn’t know you were still sore about that,”

“Of course I bloody well am. All those animals and all those poor people...” he trails off, looking at his well-manicured toes.

“Mmmn,” agrees Crowley.

He’d never really gotten on with other animals but that didn’t mean he’d wanted them all to drown. He starts to gently comb through Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale sinks lower in the tub to get them wet, ostensibly to help Crowley take care of him better. Crowley smirks. Crowley summons some of his own shampoo (tea-tree oil is very in right now and tingles pleasantly when you give it a good lather) and starts to massage the angel’s scalp.

Aziraphale, who still succumbs to the flocking and preening instincts of all angels, groans in quiet delight. The Crowley of a few hours ago would have leaped at the chance to elicit that sound again from his angel in much less innocent ways5. But he’s not that much of a bastard, or an insensitive idiot, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to touch below the angel’s jaw without shaking for a good few weeks.

That sigil...carved onto his angel? Crowley would rather Fall again than see ichor dry on Aziraphale’s curls again. He rinses the angel’s hair, and starts to rub the blood off his ears and face with gentle fingers. When the water is barely warm and brownish, the angel stands up and steps out into a large, fluffy towel that Crowley is holding out for him. He takes a step back so that Aziraphale can dry himself.

"I don't suppose you have any clothes for me dear?" he says, rubbing himself down perfunctorily, and wrapping the towel around his head.

Crowley shrugs a shoulder numbly.

"I'll find you something," he says. He takes a few steps toward the bathroom door, but pauses, looks at the angel. Suddenly, he doesn't want to let the angel out of his sight. The angel watches how he tenses, and watches how he stops. "Crowley- dear, it's alright,"

"No, it isn't," said Crowley, caustically, suddenly, furiously. He rounds on the angel, and slams his fist down on the counter. The granite cracks, and Aziraphale is unimpressed.

"It bloody-well fucking isn't. Those demons shouldn't have known how to have gotten you as good as they did. They shouldn't have known how to bypass the wards, how to hurt you, how to make a

sigil like the one they had. But, I pissed off a Duke, and you got the brunt of the hurt because of it. Because of me, angel. So don't you go around telling me that it's alright," He knocked his dark glasses from his face, and pushed his palms into his eye-sockets.

"Well," Aziraphale said gently, "I'm all right now." Crowley didn't look up.

"And really, after that little display back there, I can't say that anyone is going to be coming after the either of us any time soon,"

Crowley becomes even more still.

"My dear, tell me. What, exactly, have you done?”

 

* * *

 

1.The poison was still fresh on his tongue, and he knows his fangs haven’t retracted all the way yet. He wasn’t going to so much as open his mouth near the angel until he was sure it was all swallowed and gone.

2\. Crowley does not ride roller coasters or go to haunted houses unless Aziraphale really begs him because it’s just not worth the adrenaline crash and the red-black tears that come after. Shit’s embarrassing.  
3\. Aziraphale has no hair to speak of except for what’s on his head and what grows between his legs from the effort he makes for Crowley. He hasn’t had so much as a five o’clock shadow since Ancient Greece.  
4\. He hasn't told the angel about his little experiment on himself. He knows what the angel will say- knows because the angel already told him about his beliefs on their basic natures. About how they've already taken a lot of liberties, and just how crazy is he-exactly? This is the kind of shit a human would pull, and what angel would want a demon who acts like a human? (This answer is obvious to everyone but Crowley.)

5\. It isn’t their first date.

It’s midday, and the sky is blue like his angel’s eyes and Crowley is feeling a little impulsive. They had walked to the new liquid nitrogen ice cream parlor a few blocks from St. James’ park. Aziraphale was intrigued by the promise of novelty ice-cream, and Crowley was, as ever, impressed with human ingenuity. All the resources and research involved could have sent humans to Mars, but no. Humans would rather have really, really cold ice-cream. Naturally.

However, the angel is absolutely delighted with the cute decor, and the several flavors available. The cute teenage girl behind the counter is treating them with sickening sweetness, and the angel can’t really resist cute humans in cute places who give him ice cream. He tips her well, and they are off.

Crowley can feel her triumph and avarice all the way out the door. A bad job well done indeed.

They’d started holding hands. It was a thing now. Aziraphale has one soft palm in Crowley’s large and bony hand, and the other one holds his waffle cone. He is enjoying it, a lot, and making almost obscene little noises, his little human-shaped tongue is very pink against the minty ice cream, his lips a bit red from the cold. Though Crowley is sure the noises wouldn’t have seen so obscene to him ten years ago, Crowley’s tongue starts to push against his teeth, almost against his will.

Aziraphale finishes his treat, and they continue to walk, Crowley in silence and Aziraphale happily nattering away. They walk until they’ve traversed through the park and back to the bookshop. Crowley holds the door open for the angel, and locks the door behind him. He gives it a firm tap, so it knows he means it.

Aziraphale is already in the little kitchenette, about to make tea. Crowley comes up behind him, gently stills his wrist.

“Angel?” he says.

The angel looks a bit taken aback, and turns in his arms.

The interruption of tea preparation is serious- or at least it better be.

“Yes, dear? Everything alright?”

“Fine. Just,” Crowley looks at Aziraphale’s hands, then at his mouth, “Can I try something?” Aziraphale nods slowly, then squints at him. He starts to turn back toward the counter.

“But are you sure you-mph,” Crowley catches his mouth with a hot open kiss.

Aziraphale melts like ice-cream on a blazing sidewalk. He leans forward even as his body sags back, and Crowley gets his arms around his angel and grips tightly. He lets his tongue slip past his teeth to twine with the angel’s. He tastes mint and cream and angel warmth. He feels Aziraphale’s knees shake. His own heart beats harder in response and his hands want to be everywhere at once.

He lowers the angel to the floor, where the dust moves graciously out of the way, and his grip on his sides and hips never wavers as he undoes the angel’s belt buckle, button, and zipper. He shifts his thigh, giving a little friction that makes Aziraphale moan into his mouth and push his hips up.

Crowley leaves the angel’s mouth a mess, to lick at the skin of his jaw. He leaves the angel’s jaw wet and shining to nibble at his throat where his collar folds under. He leaves the angel’s throat with a blooming red mark, beautiful, like a dahlia and just as bright, to kiss the angel again. His angel hasn’t caught his breath yet. And this worries Crowley a little and thrills Crowley a lot because of the two of them? Aziraphale is usually the collected one.

Whether the angel has noticed that his trousers are undone is not known to Crowley, but he makes the angel very aware very quickly. He rucks the ugly button up and the uglier plaid sweater vest and the ugliest tweed trousers known to man up, up, down.

“This is what I wanted angel,” Crowley pants, pausing to look at Aziraphale. His eyes are bluer than a paint chip called “Blue Carribean Sea Dreamscape in the Azure Sky with Dolphins”, and he is having a hard time sucking air (pun not intended).

Crowley takes care with the delicate bulge underneath his chin, but absolutely shreds the tight white pants with long teeth and a strong jaw. Aziraphale moans, like he’s practicing his scales: low and rumbling to high and clear when Crowley opens his mouth and sucks the hot flesh down his throat. Only Someone knows how many blow-jobs Crowley has given since the inception of the idea in human's history of sexuality, probably more than he’d received honestly, but Crowley was determined to make this one his master-piece.

If Aziraphale was going to put in the effort (and that had been some work, trying to get the angel to try), then by the Bentley he was going to reward it. With interest. He knew the angel wasn’t going to last- his shaking thighs and bitten lip and raw eyes told him that- so he introduced a trick of his

forked, prehensile, tongue and watched as his angel combusted. Watching the angels face, hearing the high cry and feeling the plump, strong hand in his hair and tasting the sweet angel-essence that was burning his mouth a little was enough for him to thank whoever was listening that he didn’t need to blink.


	3. Tears Fall and Thunder Claps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone!
> 
> WARNING: The swearing gets stronger in this chapter, and I just wanted to give a warning.
> 
> If you’re enjoying the story, or have a question, let me know in a comment! I’d love to hear from ya’ll.
> 
> Thank you so much to all who have left Kudos and comments!

In the beginning, it had been a delivery job.

Go top-side with Ligur, and deliver the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness to Crawly.

Take Satan’s own kin, who would wreak havoc on the mortal world and begin the Great War in a spectacular, filthy orgasm of bloodshed... to Crawly. The snake.

Ligur hadn’t given too much mind, besides the brief thought to how a snake was supposed to go about carrying a baby basket seeing as how they haven't any arms, but Hastur had been a touch wary at the thought of this Crawly being handed the great responsibility.

A total fuck up that one-he'd said- left on Earth too long. Hastur had even mentioned it in Court to Lord Beelzebub with Lord Satan in attendance, in as calm and a simpering a tone as a Duke of Hell could manage. Nearly gotten his hide melted off but that was Lord Satan for you- hot temper that one.

Granted, everything had been all right for a few years- after he diverted that lightening strike to the Satanist church and those crazy, chattering old biddies had watched it burn.

Oh yeah, afterwards had been very exciting Down Below. The forces of Hell were well and truly astir, really frothing at the mouth for a good blood bath. The collective skill, number and impatience of Hell were growing by the day. He and Ligur and a couple of the other Dukes, Princes, squires, and the more sporting Princesses had placed bets on who was going to get smote to dust first, and who would get the first angel-kill. Even Beelzebub, the biggest buzz-kill Below, had placed her fair share of bets.

But then...things didn't start. Things, in fact, backpedaled and nosedived into shit.

One may imagine the sheer volume of Hastur’s surprise1 when the damned snake doused Ligur in holy water and trapped the other Duke in one of those talking boxes2. He’d gotten out, and he’d gotten a meal and he’d reported back to Hell for new orders. But in the interim, that fucker had screwed everything up.

Him and that filthy, blessed, angel had stood up to the whole business: to Beelzebub, the Metatron, to Satan himself! And the Anti- Christ hadn’t done his job. Was living as a human now, if the rumors were true.

So, there had been no glorious war. There was still an Earth.

The Empire of Hell had not dominated the Heavenly Host, and was now sitting back on it’s arse doing shit-all because no one knew what in the bleeding eyes of Hell to do with themselves.

Lord Satan was so furious, the River Styx was boiling and ice was crystalizing on the stalactites in Dis. No one had ever died from frostbite in Hell before.

Bloody fuck.

And he’d killed Ligur! Not discorporated him. He was dead- full out kicked the bucket, never to return, dead3. Unheard of, it was. It was one thing for a demon to kill a lower demon, but for a lower demon to kill a Duke? Utter shite.

And nothing was being done about it. Not a damn thing.

He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been since he'd been top-side, but he decided enough was enough. He’d gone out to confront4 Crawly.

And when he’d finally tracked him down, the surprise5 of what he saw nearly bowled him over. Crawly was in that large, gleaming horseless carriage- damnable snake he was- touching mouths in a kiss with that angel.

Like a fucking human. He’d stopped in the shadows he had been passing through, lurking on instinct. The angel and the low, dirty, sorry excuse of a demon had exited the horseless carriage and gone into the bookshop hastily. Probably to do other filthy, loving things in the privacy of the bookshop. Probably touching other parts of themselves together.

Disgusting. He moved closer to watch.

But before he could get too close, something made him pause.

Now, as a Duke, Hastur had certain occult privileges granted to him, certain powers that best attuned him to Heavenly, ethereal influences so that they could be best avoided.

He’d been too shocked and dazed to notice before, but there were wards all over the book-shop stretching out to two feet in circumference around the front door. He couldn’t feel them, but if he looked with the right Sight he could see lines as fine and strong as spider-webs moving and throbbing to create a strong, three- dimensional shell around the shop. Each ward line was a different color and weight that directly intimated its strength and purpose.

There were wards that not even Hastur could not have passed through without collapsing into smoldering dung.

And Crawly, the low-life, cowardly, good for nothing Serpent, had walked right through them. Bloody, absolute fuckery this was.

He went down back down Below to think.

1\. Imagine it has the heft and girth and smell of a whale carcass.  
2\. That holy water maneuver had absolutely destroyed the bloody betting odds. Blown the whole gambit open like a whore’s arse it did. Hastur was out 380 souls.  
3\. Granted, Hastur had been the first to know of the death, so he’d been able to grab all of Ligur’s lands, deeds, and assets before anyone else. But it was the principle of the thing.  
4\. Confrontation, to Hastur, meant cold and efficient slaughter. Pragmatics and semantics weren’t necessary to a Duke who’s got his blood up.  
5\. Now, imagine that same whale carcass. Imagine it washed up, six days deep into a hot, humid summer. Imagine it’s just smacked you upside the head.

 

* * *

 

 Crowley has his eyes covered still; he can’t look at the angel. He knows, just knows, that this isn't going to end well. He wants to hold out, pretend like nothing has happened. He wants what he's always wanted, to stay safe, away from Hell, on Earth and that desire is stretched so tight and hard in his chest that it's hard to move, harder to breathe, hardest thing in the world to look at his angel's face.

But he sighs when he feels soft hands on his wrists that gentle his hands away from his face. He looks into the big, blue eyes of his angel and that want- coiled so tight for so many years in his chest- snaps. It's replaced with something different, that's always been there, but it's softer, fuller.

He capitulates, and tells Aziraphale what he wants to know.

“Remember when we got back from Tadfield, and I went back to my apartment to get smashed?”

Aziraphale nods, towel bobbing, and Crowley remembers he has yet to provide pajamas. He snaps his fingers, and there is a plain pair of black cotton pants, black cotton trousers, and a white t-shirt in his hands.

The angel steps into the pants and trousers, and takes the towel off his head. He holds the t-shirt awkwardly, until he blinks, and suddenly it’s a bright, cherry red tartan button-up with elaborate lacing around the collar and sleeve cuffs that only the dottiest of the world’s great-grandmothers would don.

Crowley groans in defeat when the angel slips it on and buttons it up to the top button. He turns away and the angel follows him into the hyper-oxygenated sitting room. They stop and stare at the mess of plant life.

Crowley continues, “Well, I was hammered. But I couldn’t fall asleep- so I turned on the TV, and there was this program running. About snakes,"

“Ineffable, really,” smirks the angel, who’s staring at the couch he nearly died on. Crowley doesn't comment. He's sick to death of the word, but he takes the angel's hand.

“There was this snake that ate these poisonous ants or beetles or whatever. And they took the ant poison and their bodies had adapted so as to make their own venom out of it. And when I saw that I got this...idea,”

Aziraphale continues to stare at the couch, and shifts.

“I thought, maybe, I could do that too? Take something that’s supposed to be toxic to me, and make it work in my favor,”

Aziraphale turns to him, unblinking.

“Well, I’ll have you know, it worked,” Crowley said, a trifle defensive, though he doesn't really know why.

“When I was facing off with Hastur and Ligur – oh, did I not tell you about that- sorry- anyway- Ligur went up in smoke from the holy water bath I gave him but I’d kept some water in the plant mister in case Hastur didn’t get splashed. So, of course the bastard didn’t get even a drop on him, but when I threatened him with some holy water, a little got on me instead,"

He look down at his left hand, where there is a bright white scar on the inside of his index finger. The angel’s eyes widen, and he takes the hand for himself. He'd never once considered where all those scars came from. He feels ill; like when he heard that Crowley had run into his burning bookshop looking for help, after being accused of not knowing what love felt like. How had he not noticed? What kind of angel was he?

Crowley blusters on.

“Yeah, scared me too heh- and so he thought I was bluffing, which I wasn’t, and tried to jump me. So I came after you in Tadfield and so on and so on... but, when I was drinking, and watching that program, I thought to try again? Try and test to see how immune I really am?” Crowley trailed off.

Watching the angel’s pale, unmoving face was making him second-guess his honesty.

"So first, it was like a drop on a finger tip, and it hurt, but I didn't start smoldering or dying or anything. So then I switched fingertips, moved to large drops on my whole hands, and yeah, it hurt but I could tolerate more and more of it every time. And then I really got to thinking about how poisonous I actually was. My venom- it's never done much to actually hurt an ethereal or occult person. But I started to really test it. I started well, drinking the holy water, started measuring how much venom I could produce if I really thought about it. I didn't really even have to Will any new anatomy,"

Aziraphale's mouth opened, and nothing came out. His eyes were huge and shining.

"I got really good at spitting- like those cobras. I can spit from thirty paces onto a church ground and set the whole place ablaze,"

The angel still isn't moving, but the hand in his is limp and that is both worse and infinitely more telling.

The angel closes his mouth, swallows, and croaks, “And you didn’t mention these experiments- these changes because...?”

Crowley shrugged a shoulder.

“Well I’m telling you know aren’t I?"

Aziraphale rips his hand away and snarls at the demon, like a lioness at a hyena. Crowley steps back.

"That's not good enough, you could have- I wouldn't have even known-,"

Crowley sighs, "Besides what would you have said if I’d told you what I'd planned to do?" He sighs, again, deeply, “I knew it would just end in a row,”

Aziraphale stands there, hurt and shocked in equal measure, and decides that he needs a drink. Because Crowley’s right-a row is coming.

He walks past the demon and all the way into the kitchen and finds a glass and a bottle as the demon follows him. He’s still pouring and the demon is still talking.

“And besides, that’s not important right now. I know my venom is strong enough to work on demons, but this is just the start. You take it from me- we need to go back to the book-shop, and clean that mess up. That smell is going to put every demon on Earth on high alert. Then, I’ve got to leave. You’re going to lock that place down, use all the wards you know, and you’re not going to let them up until I get Hastur under control,"

Aziraphale chokes on his first sip of red wine1, and he nearly loses his grip on the glass. This has gone too far, too fast.

“Crowley!” he cries, “where in the world is this coming from? You’ve never wanted to fight a day in your life and now you’re practically begging for one? From a Duke of Hell no less?” The angel looked ready to shed some Tears. “My dear boy, that is suicide! You will get yourself killed- and I will not have it. I don’t want to live out the rest of Existence without you. I thought we would have eons, once Adam was done, Crowley2. I thought that you knew how important this-you-,”

Tears _are_ falling now, along with Aziraphale's eloquence, and Crowley spreads his hands.

“No, no angel. This is important. You are the most important thing in my life- which is why I need to do this. I need to keep you safe,”

Tears are streaming down the angel’s face, but his eyes are a hard crystal- blue. There is a light behind them, a holy light, like a cherubim getting restless.

Crowley moves to take the angel’s face in his hands, but the angel flinches back.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Aziraphale hisses viciously, gesturing with the wine like one would a sword, “you’ll burn-,”

“Shhh. Look, angel,”

He runs soft fingertips up the angels’ neck, and gently presses at his jaw. He brushes bony, scarred thumbs across wet cheeks. Nothing happens3.

“See angel? I’m changing. This doesn’t even hurt4. This running and hiding thing has worked for me so far because I’ve been as close to invisible as a demon living on Earth can be. But this failed apocalypse business has put the both of us on the map, and as long as Hastur is out there, you’re the perfect bait. They know that I lo- care about you. I don’t know how, but they do,”

Aziraphale watches him with big, glassy eyes, not hidden with spectacles and he hiccups a little before crying harder into his wine.

Crowley sighs, and pulls him close. He knows the angel likes hugs. A soft hand and a fine wine glass press into his back.

He rests his chin on the angel’s head.

“I feel different, angel. I don’t want to just be a lower demon that all 9 circles can push around, barely more threatening than an imp; I want to be who I am. And who I am is someone that wants to keep you safe, here with me. One Earth, without having to worry about who may be crawling up for revenge,”

Aziraphale shakes his head under that pointed chin.

“This isn’t you, Crowley. This isn’t-,”

Aziraphale knows that as soon as he stops crying like a buffoon he’s going to think of a truly thoughtful, intellectual rebuttal. He’s going to make Crowley see sense. He is. Because what Crowley was proposing was insane.

Going into Hell, to kill a Duke of Hell, to defend an angel of all things, armed only with your wits, a suit, and some hostile spit was a terrible plan.

And Aziraphale was afraid for Crowley, yes, but also afraid for himself. He didn’t want to go through anything like the sigil business again. It had hurt like nothing he'd ever known. It was frozen fire on his skin. Being cut off as he had been from Above, but still able to feel enough of God’s love to start the cycle into despair had nearly killed him. Going through that again...he couldn't. Not again. But he wasn't about to let Crowley do this by himself either.

He shakes his head, and pulls away.

 

* * *

1\. Aziraphale had forgotten to change the boring merlot into a decent cabernet sauvignon, and being caught off guard on two fronts made him choke.

2\. Crowley and Aziraphale used to go literally ages without seeing or hearing from each other. And while the time gaps had continued to shrink since the beginning of the Arrangement, it wasn’t until the proper 1850’s that they became anything closer than non-hostile pseudo friends. The thought of going days, months, years, centuries, millennia, without Crowley hurts Aziraphale in ways that as an angel, makes him nervous.  
3\. Angel Tears are known as some of the most potent sources of magic that any being could come in contact with. It’s also generally known that any demon or occult force that comes in contact with fresh Angel Tears will go up like raw sodium in a water bucket.  
4\. It didn’t hurt, it just felt like static electricity had been turned into a syrup that dripped off his fingers. It felt almost like it should have hurt. It felt more like his skin was soaking it up than anything.


	4. What Are You Made Of?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's been a while! Sorry about that- but I am so so soooo thankful and appreciative of all of the comments and kudos. I love each of them more than words can express. I hope everyone had a lovely holiday season!

The last of Aziraphale’s heat is fading from his skin, and the separation hurts more than the Tears did.

“My dear,” Aziraphale says while he puts the glass down with a sharp snik on the table, “What in the world makes you think I’m going to go along with this... plan of yours?”

There’s a flicker in Crowley’s eyes that Aziraphale Does Not Like. He’s still- like a snake that’s waiting for prey. He's not usually still unless he's sleeping1, and even then-

Aziraphale blusters, hands waving; “If you’re really this riled up about it, then I’m coming with you,”

Crowley goes from snake-still to electrified, “No! That is the one place where I will never have you go. Not for any reason, especially not for me,” Crowley begins to pace in long strides, running hands through his hair.

“You don’t get to decide where I go, and where I don’t,” Aziraphale states, heavy and pompous, willfully ignoring the last thing Crowley said.

“You don’t belong there. I would Fall again before letting you-,”

“No one can Fall twice!”

“That is so beyond the point! What part of keeping you safe is not getting through your skull?”

“So sorry for saying so my dear, but this ‘keeping me safe’ lark hasn’t exactly worked all that well for you thus far,” Aziraphale says quietly, arms folded.

The silence is deafening, and Crowley’s steps halt with his breath. Aziraphale is starting to twitch- like his frail human corporation is suffering the aftershocks of his ethereal mind turning over a thousand times a second.

He _knew_ that Crowley had been hiding something. He had known it was something, but he had never dreamt it would be something like this.

Because this was fucking balderdash. Did the silly serpent think that Aziraphale didn't know him? At his worst and his best?

It was one thing to go against ineffability- Crowley had practically invented that song and dance- but this was spitting in the face of their Arrangement, their relationship, their future together. And that was unacceptable. They played by their rules, against Heaven and Hell and everything in between together. But it was becoming apparent that what Crowley really wanted was to go off and change the game without even consulting Aziraphale. Now that Crowley had gotten a taste of what was essentially Holy Power, he seemed dead-set on playing by his own rules. Crowley had the power to combat the purity of Holy water now, what other Powers could he attain, now that he had a knack for it?

The angel swallows the burning lump in his throat.

All the angry little voices in his head that have nagged him for centuries, that he had thought were dead, are screaming in sulking, lilting tones how his whole relationship with the demon is a _lie_. He doesn't want to believe them, hasn't wanted to for millennia, but this is what it all boils down to isn't it? The distribution of power towards the individual and away from the Heavenly Host. Demons want power, and they only want it for themselves, that’s why they Fell in the first place, and _How does it feel you angelic idiot, to have been played so thoroughly? All of the things that made Crowley special didn’t really exist at all- did they?_ and the absolute worst- _Did you really think he loved you?_

The tears on his face and in his eyes dry up. The burning lump is still there, but it’s cooling to ashes now- his throat is sticky with them.

“Who do you think you are?” Aziraphale whispers.

He meets Crowley’s eyes, and takes another step back. “You may have done something to change yourself, but you are still the Serpent from Eden, and you need to stop this, before it gets out of hand and you do something you regret. You're going to get hurt,”

Crowley is hit with a horrible idea2. He knows Aziraphale loves him. He also knows that he loves Aziraphale- whether the angel really believes him or not. This was going to hurt so much.

But sometimes, fighting just tastes better.

He lays the bait, “What- I get ambition and a will to fight and suddenly I’m no longer myself?”

Aziraphale flails a beautiful, plump, and well-moisturized hand and exclaims, “Yes! You tempt, you cajole, and you trick but you don’t fight. Your idea of ambition is to take a nap that lasts a full year!”

“Oh shut up! Things have changed, and we have to change with it- but you’d love for everything to stay the same wouldn’t you? You’re so scared of ambition- so scared of being anything other than boring and 'correct', you’d rather-”

“My dear,” Aziraphale starts, his temper (his real one) starting to show, exasperated and hurt and bewildered, “How can you possibly say that when the last year has done nothing but prove the opposite?”

Crowley’s horrible idea is working, Aziraphale’s halo is starting to show and he doesn’t know it. Their shadows are getting sharp along the walls.

“Oh, damn you,” Crowley hisses, and absolutely does not mean it. He drags the angel into a kiss, open and gentle and Crowley is absolutely relieved that Aziraphale is still willing to stick his tongue in his mouth. He wants to leave with that taste, his angel’s taste, in his mouth. But then the angel pulls back and throws a full glass of wine in his face that hadn’t been in his hand earlier.

“I am absolutely furious with you,” he says primly, looking at the empty glass, and not Crowley’s face. Crowley is infinitely glad for his luck, because if this doesn’t land he’s going to have to move to Plan B3. And he knows he won’t be able to say what he’s about to say if Aziraphale looks at him.

He draws himself up, tenses back, he's a viper, fit to strike. “Don’t you tell me about furious Heaven-scum,” he seethes.

The old insult rips into Azirphale’s heart- and Crowley pales.

There’s a smack, and an almighty crash. Aziraphale’s hand-- glowing white and infra-blue -- had come down across Crowley’s face and sent him flying, and now he lays sprawled back into his plants. Clay pots shattered under his weight, and Crowley lays there, limp, a blister in the shape of a small, well- manicured hand steaming from his face.

“So you can still be hurt, demon,” says the Wrathful Angel. Crowley doesn’t move, but he does start to laugh.

“Only by you. Only ever by you Aziraphale,” He looks into the angel’s eyes. “How much power was behind that swing do you think? I’d love to know, I’m quite curious, you understand,”

The angel freezes, and lowers his hand. He’s got ice in his stomach and he can’t answer.

“Enough to kill a normal demon, would you say? Good thing my body can absorb it,” Crowley wheezes, “Other wise... Do you want me dead, Principality?”

Aziraphale doesn’t breathe. His curls twitch- a barely there negation that should have been a screaming denial: _No I don’t want you dead, never, never, never leave me, be with me always_ , but there’s too much feeling in his chest, too much give in his knees, and too much pain in Crowley’s face.

Too much, too much, too much – never, never, never.

Crowley takes in Aziraphale’s frozen form, and closes his eyes. In a flash of flame and a choking cloud of smoke, he’s gone.

Aziraphale looks at the broken, scorched pots and the dying, beautiful plants. At the wine stain on the carpet, and the soggy couch. At the empty jug of holy water, and the disgusting washcloth.

He goes back to the bookshop, and he puts up every ward he knows; he makes it clear that there are no exceptions this time. Then he makes a cup of cocoa, and sits in the backroom and sobs like he never did when they all thought the world was ending.

* * *

 Crowley isn’t actually in Hell. He is somewhere that is arguably worse. Purgatory.

He knows the power from Aziraphale’s Wrath is sinking into his skin, and he knows the power of Aziraphale’s Sorrow from the Tears is mixing in his blood. Crowley knows the more angelic power he can hold onto, the better his chances are against Hastur. He also knows it was a foul thing – what he did to Aziraphale.

He hated having to force the angel’s hand like that. He hates that he still feels the betrayal, and that the betrayal is literally painted all over his face.

Though, this betrayal feels different than any he has suffered before; this feels more like heartbreak. It was jagged, crackling, and distracting. Eventually, he decided that betrayal was an emotion he was more familiar with, and thus molded to the inside of his chest more comfortably.

But now he’s healed up a good bit, though the scar isn’t pretty. Nothing really is in Purgatory, because all the apathy in the air makes it hard to form an opinion on aesthetics4.

He’s standing on the Ferry in the River Styx (that while warm, is no longer boiling) and he’s talking to the Ferryman while trying not to stare at his reflection in the water. Usually, there would be more than two people per ferry, but Crowley had bribed the Ferryman with triple the pay for a full boat, and had gotten a ride all to himself.

They were in the middle of the river, about half way between each bank, and the fog was thick and quiet.

“You ever wanted to do something else mate?” he asks the cloaked skeleton, trying for casual, but fully ready to accept annoying.

“No,” it said, not breaking stride.

“Why not?” Crowley shuffled.

“Not my job,” it said. The skull did not move. Its arms and legs did not stop their push-pull rhythm.

“Right. Say- what’s this water made of?”

“Water,”

Crowley turned his head, and looked up, an Earth habit he very much enjoyed.

“Oh. Can you swim in it?”

“Not demons,”

“Well, no, but can you?”

Silence. “Not my job to swim,”

Crowley doesn't sigh at that particular 14th century answer, because that’s as good as a confession of ‘I don’t know -I’ve never tried’.

“Well, I mean, seems a good skill for a ferryman to have. I was just curious. I’ve been thinking about a career change, see, and was wondering whether that was a requirement,”

The ferryman stared at him, or through him, or maybe past him- empty sockets, jaw open, still shunting the short boat with the long pole.

Okay. This wasn’t working.

Crowley struck right when the ferryman had the pole almost completely out of the water. With a mighty shove the ferryman was off balance, and it was nothing for Crowley to take the pole from its grip and knock the skull clean off into the river. The ferryman’s body collapsed into a pile of bones. The skull sank without a sound. The skull, anti-climactically, looked no more surprised than usual.

Crowley immediately took the gold from the ferryman’s pockets and grabbed two femurs and a radius. He spread his wings and launched into the thick clouds5.

* * *

 

1\. Holy power was made up of a lot of things- emotions, mostly. Most of which have been talked about and expressed, to a less severe degree, throughout the whole of human history. There were five main branches that all other emotion flowed: Wrath, Sorrow, Joy, Fear, and Love. Usually when smiting, an angel could funnel enough Holy Wrath into a demon to destroy them. Holy Sorrow was generally said to be the only thing to make an angel Cry Tears. Holy Love was, ostensibly, everywhere. Holy Joy could only be found in Heaven. And Holy Fear, well. Let's just say you got enough of that in Hell.

But let's say a demon, who had never been able to channel much of anything, now has a really good tolerance to Holy Power through regular holy water consumption. It makes them powerful enough to slay other demons, and say that now, they can contain not only Holy Fear, but Holy Sorrow too. Imagine what their abilities might be, if Holy Wrath were to enter the equation.

What might we say this demon could do then?

2\. There is no Plan B. To dub this horrible idea to make Aziraphale furious enough to strike him as ‘Plan A’ would be extremely generous.

3.It was the first snow since the failure of the Apocalypse, and Crowley was freezing. Had the kid made snow colder somehow? More wet? It was a proper, thick snow. Ice was freezing in sprawling patches across the sidewalk and the streets were empty; the wind whistled as high and harsh a melody as one made by a 4 year old with a piccolo.

4\. Crowley's body heat regulation, naturally abysmal, was especially pathetic once the snow started to fall. And Aziraphale had the unmitigated gall to look warm and cozy in his ugly jumper and bow tie and thick trousers and hideous socks. Crowley had slunk in from outside and thrown himself onto the couch, and even with the heat at full blast in the shop, he was still shivering.

Crowley glowered at him.

"Dearest, I offered you hot cocoa when you walked in," said the angel across from the side table. He made a show of setting his crossword aside, and he sipped daintily at a teacup older than the queen, as if to highlight his point.

A grunt.

"If you're really so cold, it's warmer upstairs, in the bedroom,"

A pause. Crowley flicked his glasses away, and set his bright yellow eyes upon the angel. He'd stayed up there before to nap and warm up, but always alone.

"Come up with me?"

The teacup shook a fraction in the angel's hand. This was new.

"I'm quite busy dear," he glanced at the crossword puzzle, and wondered if other angels lied as easily as he did.

"Annnnnnnggggel. I'm cold,"

Well, there wasn't really any use arguing was there? Stubborn serpent.

Aziraphale didn't have much in the way of a bedroom. He had a room above the bookshop, and surely at one point it had been slept in regularly. Now though, it was filled to almost a physically impossible capacity with books, pamphlets, an old printing press, knick-knacks, ancient clothes and simply old clothes, outdated weapons, and an even more outdated bed with thick ugly sheepskin blankets and tartan sheets. He shuffled over to the bed, and kicked off his shoes.

He slid under the covers, stiff and shaky, and he waited with the blankets still coiled around his waist. Aziraphale watched. He licked his lips, then sat down on the side of the bed farthest from Crowley, and began to take his shoes off. He also told his hands to stop shaking, and reminded himself that his heart had no business thumping like that. Could wake up the whole gosh-darn neighborhood like a hoodlum, carrying on so.

He swung his legs up, and settled back next to the demon on top of the blankets with his upper body flush with the headboard.

"I haven't seen you look this uncomfortable since Ancient Egypt. Come on Aziraphale, lie down with me," says Crowley, while Aziraphale sticks his nose up and fights the blush lining his ears and crawling down to his nose.

"Don't you tempt me," he says, uselessly. Was this bed always so small?

"I'm not tempting you, I'm telling you, lie down,"

Aziraphale sighs, and scooches down until his legs are under the covers, and then in a sluggish stretch of movement Crowley is wrapped around him. Crowley's nose is in his throat, and one leg is up his hip and the other is pressed in a line down his side all the way to his foot. His icy hands are under his jumper, on the waist of his trousers, clenched and not seductive.

It is all surprisingly all right.

Aziraphale watches the snow fall, and listens to the deep and unnecessary breathing of his demon. He thought it would be boring, feeling another be still in sleep next to you, but Crowley isn't still. Aziraphale would have thought that Crowley would be still as a stone, but instead he feels the twitches, and hears the shifting, and is pressed by the weight of Crowley in sleep and it all combines into the feeling of good and home and love. They haven't kissed yet, and Aziraphale isn't sure he will ever want to kiss Crowley's mouth, or ever will be ready to be kissed on the mouth by Crowley, but this he could get used to.

The bed really isn't that small after all.

  1. It also makes it hard to breathe, or blink, or swallow, or feel anything at all.
  2. While no human alive may know this-much of the plumage found on the wings of the birds of today are loosely based on the feathers first given to the Heavenly host in the beginning. Which is a touch unfortunate- given the human propensity to attach prejudice to the way something looks.



For example, Gabriel’s wings were a soft yellow- gold, streaked through with bright blue and green peacock type feathers. Any human who was asked would say he looked flamboyant and ridiculous, and if he was going to start spouting important messages could he maybe look more professional while doing so? In a nice clean white maybe? Whereas Michael’s wings were a bright cardinal red- and bore falcon bars and mean looking flight feathers. Uriel’s looked like a weirdly sleek ostrich had relations with a cockatoo, and then decided to be perpetually surprised.

This means that demon and angel wings are not necessarily any more different than the wings of any other two birds of the same species. But it also means that every demon that had once had striking, glorious plumage was now stuck with it. Many demons dirty their wings with soot, or dye them with blood to hide the Heavenly reminder, but Crowley had been relatively lucky. He had been given wings like that of a crow- they were jet black but in the right light they could shimmer every color in the whole spectrum. Even the wavelengths humans couldn’t see. Aziraphale loved them.


End file.
